


A Change of Plans

by mrua7



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Friendship, Gen, Gen Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:55:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2751878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon Solo runs into some complications on Christmas Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Change of Plans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kyburg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyburg/gifts).



> TO: Kyburg  
> FROM: mrua7  
> Down the Chimney 2014  
> Prompt: The song: "I Told You I Loved You, Now Get Out."  
> Requsted by: Kyburg  
> Title: "A Change of Plans"  
> Author: mrua7  
> Word count: approx. 3600

Napoleon Solo sauntered along the grey corridors of headquarters with a spring in his step and a smile on his lips. Not that such was out of character for him, but today he was more animated than usual. All was right with the world for once since T.H.R.U.S.H. always took off the holidays, giving everyone a break. He guessed even they had families too.

He was joined by his partner who’d just stepped out from the entrance to Section VII; his nose buried in a folder, as usual.

Illya was dressed in his grey suit, but as a change of pace, a burgundy turtleneck.

“Looking rather festive aren’t we chum,” Napoleon commented as Illya fell into step alongside him.

“Festive? Oh you are referring to it being Christmas, which I must yet remind you again I do not celebrate your bourgeois holiday.”

“It’s not bourgeois, it’s the season of giving and famil…” Napoleon stopped, reminding himself that Kuryakin had no family. Though their partnership was relatively new, only year, he’d managed to weasel a few details out of the Russian regarding his past.  He’d lost his parents and siblings during the war and was raised in a Moscow orphanage, with the Soviet military intelligence service becoming his pseudo-family, if that term was even appropriate.  Other than that, Illya remained tight-lipped about everything else in his past.

The fact the man wore a thin gold band on his hand hinted that perhaps he was or had been married, but again Illya refused to speak about it.

Solo was an inquisitive man by nature, and looked upon finding out about his partner as a challenge but it was one that would require the utmost patience.

He could, of course, get into Alexander Waverly’s private files...dossiers of special agents that were kept under lock and key. Why, he had no idea but perhaps it had something to do with the agreement between the Kremlin and the Command to bring a Soviet on board as a field operative. Solo decided to curb his curiosity and keep away from those files, for now.

“You are in a very cheerful mood today,” Illya noted, disrupting Solo’s thoughts.

“Well it is Christmas chum, and I think I’m in love.”

“Napoleon it seems to me you are always in love. Who is the lucky woman this time, someone from headquarters, an airline stewardess or some pretty shop assistant you met in Macy’s?”

Napoleon stopped, scrunching up his face. “You think you know me so well don’t you?”

Illya couldn’t help but smile, knowing he’d struck a chord with his partner. “Well which is it?”

“An airline stewardess, who I met in Macy’s.”

“Hmm, that is two out of three then.”

“She has a friend by the way, how about joining us for Christmas dinner? Then we can go our separate ways afterwards, if you get my drift?”

“No thank you. I have my own plans.”

“You’re celebrating Christmas? My heart be still,” Napoleon mockingly grabbed his chest.

“I did not say that; I said I have my own plans.”

“...and they are?”

“I have a new library book I wish to read, as well as a jazz album to listen to, so it is nothing holiday related as you can see.”

Napoleon shook his head. One of these years he’d get Illya to change his ways but  guessed it wasn’t going to be this holiday.

Solo left his partner to his own devices and at the end of the day, which was two in the afternoon, he left to go home to get ready for his date with Miss Jeannette Lynn Bryson.

She was beautiful, more beautiful than any woman he’d fallen for in a long time. The blonde was built, 36-24-36...he had an eye for those sort of things. When he saw her holding that crimson red nighty up against herself while posing in front of a mirror at the department store, it was all he could do to keep his jaw from dropping.

She turned her head, seeing him staring at her, and though her cheeks blushed slightly, she smiled at him, her near aqua eyes twinkling at him.

“So what do you think, do you like it? Good look for the holidays?” She turned, modeling it for him now.

“Most definitely,” he flashed his most charming smile in response.

Conversation ensued, numbers exchanged and after a few flirtatious telephone calls, a dinner date was made for Christmas Eve at the 21 Club of course, Napoleon’s go-to place for special occasions. He was a regular customer and the staff knew to be discreet regarding the different women he wined and dined there.

Solo now sat at his usual table in the club, staring a holly center piece and candle-lit setting at his date; listening to Jeannette as she droned on and on. If ever there were a narcissistic woman it was this one. She was definitely not a good girl...not that he didn't like a 'bad' girl now and then, but not this type, not now. How had he missed the rude and judgemental attitude she was exhitibing now was beyond him. He sighed, resigning himself to a miserable Christmas Eve.

Napoleon made it through the appetizer, making pleasant enough conversation but as dinner arrived she hinted at a more amorous and private continuation of the date, wanting to abandon the rather expensive meal that just arrived.

Solo wasn’t one for bedding a woman just for the sake of getting laid, as there had to be more than a mere physical attraction...though Illya seemed to think otherwise.

The dark-haired American liked a woman who had a good head on her shoulders, was intelligent and good company. This was just not the case with Jeannette Bryson.

“Illya...” His thoughts went to his partner, sitting home alone, reading and listening to music. No doubt having a cold bowl of Cheerios for his supper, since he didn’t seem to cook.

He noticed the Russian tended to have a large meal at the Commissary before heading home and suspected the larder was empty at 'Chez Kuryakin.'

 

“Napoleon are you listening to me? Jeannette said, her voice taking on a more annoyingly nasal quality.

He cleared his throat.” Yeah sure, you were saying?”

“Well aren’t you going to take me back to your place for...ummm, you know. I’m not really hungry for food.”

Everything she’d said during the evening proved he’d made a poor choice, letting wrong part of his anatomy do his thinking instead of the right one. She was without a doubt a controlling, manipulative and a completely self-absorbed bitch.

He thought about it for a second and shook his head, declining her suggestion. The words to one of Illya recordings suddenly popped into his head, though he had no idea why as he blurted it out to her.

‘Baby, please leave me be.You want a puppet and there's no strings on me!... You can leave on the five eighteen, Now don't go 'way sayin' I've been mean; Like any guy I can change my ways, A round trip ticket good for sixty days! ‘ Time to get lost...Jeannette, this date is over.”

“Well I never,” the woman hissed, throwing her napkin down on the table.

“I seriously doubt that my dear.”

For that remark Napoleon was rewarded with a glass of champagne thrown in his face.  The stewardess rose from her chair, knocking it to the floor as she stormed off.

“Good riddance,” he mumbled, as one of the waiters dashed to his assistance with a handful of towels.

For a fleeting moment Napoleon felt guilty, as what he’d said to her was very much out of character for him. He didn’t mistreat women, or was rude to them. He wasn’t raised that way, but he supposed every man had his limits, and he’d reached his with Jeanette. He was thankful, however, he hadn’t gone to bed with her and only imagined what that could have turned into after the fact.

“You all right Mr. Solo?” The young waiter asked.

“Fine Rico, I’ll just take my bill please, thank you.”

Napoleon paid for the dinners, telling Rico to take them home with him,  making sure he left a generous tip for the man.  After retrieving his coat from the hat check, Solo stepped out into the refreshingly cold night air.

It was just beginning to snow, and the twinkling holiday lights joined with the brash neon signs that shone through the night chased away the darkness, making it look more like Christmas in the city.

There were a few couples walking arm in arm, smiling and laughing.  That made him feel better, but his thoughts still drifted back to his partner.

“What to do?” Napoleon asked himself. He finally decided with a snap of his fingers before putting on his black leather gloves.

“Taxi Mr. Solo?” The doorman asked.

“Sure Tommy, thanks,” he generously tipped the man as well. “Merry Christmas.”

“Gee, thanks Mr. Solo.” Tommy flagged down the next taxi waiting in line.

Napoleon’s cab arrived and he gave the driver the address of the Chinese restaurant that he and Illya favored, a place called ‘Changs.’

Like the 21 Club he was known there as well and the owner Chang Lee welcomed him with open arms.

“Where Mister K? He no with you tonight? I make something special for you, since it your Christmas.”

Chinese restaurants, Thai, Indian and the like were the only places open now as the holiday had officially begun. Those who celebrated it, unless they had to work, went home to their families or to church.

“Family...” Napoleon reckoned he was all the family his partner had now.  He’d never seen Illya try to communicate with anyone back in the Soviet Union. U.N.C.L.E. would have been well aware of that. He never went near the embassy, or even to Little Russia in Brighton Beach, if Illya even knew it existed? Solo made mental note to talk to him about that.

“Lee,” he smiled at the restaurateur, “I’m afraid I’ll need to take an order to go, a rather large one if you don’t mind. Let’s go with Peking Duck, a pu pu platter, lobster egg foo yung, wonton mein…the works.”

“Ahhh you having party Mr. Solo?”

“You might say that, something impromptu.”

 

Napoleon returned with his feast in two shopping bags to the waiting cab, giving the driver his home address, and after a short drive they arrived at the apartment building in which he and Kuryakin lived located in the east 40’s.

After paying and tipping the driver, Napoleon realized he’d burned through most of his cash, but that didn’t matter. He was home now and hopefully Illya would accept his gift of food and company.

He headed up to the third floor and knocked on his partners door, using a special code he and the Russian had agreed upon. Since they were neighbors, with Solo living in the apartment directly above Illya’s, it made sense they’d see more of each other.  The code eliminated reaching for one’s gun everytime there was a knock on the door.

He could hear his partner’s footsteps as he approached, that and in the background the playing of a sultry saxophone. A blue eye looked through the peep hole, being checked by Kuryakin just for good measure.

The door slowly opened with Illya giving the American an inquisitive look.

“I thought you had a hot date with a stewardess.”

“It was anything but that I’m afraid. I must be slipping in my judge of character,” Solo answered as he stepped past his partner, carrying his packages.

“I smell Chinese food,” Illya broke a smile.

“You hungry chum?”

“Need you ask?”

Napoleon let out a chuckle as he set down the bags on his partners second-hand dining table.  The apartment was sparsely furnished, and Illya being a bit of a minimalist; he supposed it suited the man. Still, some creature comforts would make it more a home.

Illya dug into the bags, laying out the feast on the table, after which he went into the kitchen to fetch what few mismatched dishes he had while Solo hung up his damp woolen coat.

Noting the place was very un-festive looking, though that didn’t surprise Napoleon; he called to his partner.

“Got any candles?”

“Yes, they are in the chest of drawers in the bedroom, bottom one. Why?”

“Never you mind,” Napoleon called back. He retrieved the candles and holders, positioning them in the middle of the table, draping around them a handful of holly that Lee had handed to him in a bag at the restaurant;  a quick decoration for what the man presumed would be a Christmas party.

Illya stopped dead in his tracks as he came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with the dishes, a pair of glasses  and utensils. Tucked under his arm was a bottle of vodka taken from his freezer.

“What is that for?”

“It’s just holly and it stands for joy and peace, nothing wrong with that right?”

“No I suppose not.”

Napoleon resisted the urge to delve into the Christian symbolism, though he suspected Illya already knew it as he was a well read man.

“Holly sprigs have also been believed to have the power to ward off witches, goblins, bad dreams and thunder and lightning,” he added with a smile.

“Well we will have none of that for sure,” Illya laughed, though for a brief moment he hoped it would ward off the nightmares from his childhood that so often plagued him.  He dismissed that instantly as nonsense. His dreams were his to deal with, and that was that.

The partners sat down together, digging into their feast, and though Illya knew it was for Christmas, he didn’t complain. He was appreciative of Napoleon’s effort, and in truth he had been feeling a bit lonely tonight.

He professed his atheism and was not one to join in Christmas festivities even at headquarters. Yet his thoughts did drift to his childhood when he was with his family celebrating Christmas and joining in the Holy Supper, though later his upbringing in the orphanage and GRU training nearly drove it all out of him.

Still Illya remembered a particular toy he’d been given at the Holy Feast, when he was perhaps seven years old. It was one of the last times he’d attended St. Andrews church in Kyiv with most of his family… just at the beginning of the war.*

It was a brightly painted horse, carved from wood, and unsophisticated, but to that young blond boy it was wonderful.

 

  
He loved that toy and a visit from the priest Father Demya who inspired him to learn to ride, and was the beginning of his love affair with the Zaporozhian Cossacks, as he grew to manhood.* That now all seemed like a lifetime ago, in truth it was another life, one he would never see again.

As he seated himself at the table Illya finally questioned his partner’s motives for this particular feast.

“Why are you doing this Napoleon? Do you not have your own family to spend the holiday with in Long Island?”

“Illya I won’t mince words with you. Though you don’t celebrate Christmas, I do and I decided I wanted to spend it with my partner and…best friend... you’ve become like family to me. As to my parents and siblings, they’re off galavanting somewhere in Europe and even my Aunt Amy is out of the country.  So you my friend are the only member of my family available for said feast.”

Illya was wide-eyed at this point. “You consider me family? I...I do not know what to say. I am honored you think of me thusly.”

Napoleon grinned, pleased his entreaty had not been rejected.

"Well now that our familial relationship is settled, let me offer a toast.” He raised his glass of vodka.

“Here’s to friendship and family at Christmas...moy brat.”

Illya couldn’t help but smile at that. It had been a long time since he’d been called brother, and though Solo was no Dimitry...Kuryakin’s late older brother, he was a very acceptable substitute.

“Spacibo, moy brat,” Kuryakin replied.”This is not what I expected when I came to this country to work for U.N.C.L.E. “

"A side benefit then chum.”

“Here is to side benefits,”Illya finally returned his partner’s toast,”and Christmas.”

“And God bless us everyone,” Napoleon quipped as he carved the Peking duck and the two men dug into their Christmas feast.

Outside in the distance the bells of the Church of St. Agnes were joyously ringing as midnight had arrived at last and the choir within began singing  ‘Joy to the World,’ with the congregation there joining in to celebrate the birth of the Christ.

Napoleon smiled, hearing just a hint of those voices, thinking perhaps a minor miracle had just happened with Illya Kuryakin...might that is.

The Russian rose from his chair, heading to the record player and changed the album, again filling the room with the sounds of a saxophone but this time it was very different music.

 

Napoleon smiled, taken completely off guard by Illya’s selection, a saxophone playing a bluesy version of "Silent Night."

Perhaps there was hope for Illya Kuryakin after all?

 

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3rxoBj8VycI&spfreload=10](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3rxoBj8VycI&spfreload=10)   The recording Illya played...

* reference to "Zaporoche" https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8930517/1/Zaporoche

 

                         


End file.
